The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.
quote by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Philosophy consists very largely of one philosopher arguing that all others are jackasses. He usually proves it, and I should add that he also usually proves that he is one himself.
quote by H.L. Mencken
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One can only become a philosopher, but not be one. As one believes he is a philosopher, he stops being one.
quote by Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Many People Lives In Thy....
Many people lives in thy soul.
The painter paints the
Words, the singer sings
the lyrics, the philosopher,
dives deep into its thought.
Whom do you love most?
The philosopher within,
Drives your mind….
The poet, writes the feelings;
The painter gives color to it…
The singer putting life
To the lyric makes
More adorable……..
None can be left alone….
And all of them create
The sense of God…..
None can be left alone!
poem by Nilakshi Das
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Another important historical factor is the fact that this already very simple religion was further simplified and purified by the early philosophers of ancient China. Our first great philosopher was a founder of naturalism; and our second great philosopher was an agnostic.
The poet is not a philosopher, but a clairvoyant.
quote by Juan Ramon Jimenez
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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I Am Just a Poet
I am just a poet.
A philosopher of sorts.
One who cohorts with others...
With common ideals as if at sport.
I am just a poet.
Observing those in an environment.
Trying to make sense of activities done.
And why some are done without consciousness.
I am just a poet.
Blessed to have what I do as a gift!
And living each moment to understand more of life.
As I share this point of view through the poems I write.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher.
quote by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Some Questions To Myself On My Quest To Happiness
ask me, and i will answer:
i got what i wanted from this life, but despite
that fact, there is still the question
to and fro
like a doubtful philosopher
like a pendulum of grandfather's clock:
what did i really want?
i did call myself my own beloved
(am i not narcissistic in this sense?)
i felt myself with my own fingers, my chest, my body,
my thighs, my feet
so attached to the ground
like i am monument
of a war hero, but there is still this question
that walks to and fro
on the yard, like a doubtful philosopher:
who am i really? why am i here?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It has often struck me that the relation of two important members of the social body to one another has never been sufficiently considered, or treated of, so far as I know, either by the philosopher or the poet.
quote by James Payn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To the poet, to the philosopher, to the saint, all things are friendly and sacred, all events profitable, all days holy, all men divine.
quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Early Morning Greeting From Her(e)
an early morning greeting from her thru tx mssging
though abbreviated
is still long and she asks that i as the philosopher
poet share
to her some of my insights for the day
i have nothing to say really,
tess, silence is wisdom too
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To decide to become a philosopher seemed as foolish to me as to decide to become a poet.
quote by Karl Jaspers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Love, My Darling, My Lady, My Wife
i count the years with you
ten fingers and two toes
i have become well rounded:
not just a mathematician
not just a philosopher
i have become a poet as well:
feeling short of the numbers
explaining the reason for my being
and writing the saddest poems ever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mr. Philosopher
Old Mr. Philosopher
Comes for Ben and Claire,
An ugly man, a tall man,
With bright-red hair.
The books that he’s written
No one can read.
“In fifty years they’ll understand:
Now there’s no need.
“All that matters now
Is getting the fun.
Come along, Ben and Claire;
Plenty to be done.”
Then old Philosopher,
Wisest man alive,
Plays at Lions and Tigers
Down along the drive—
Gambolling fiercely
Through bushes and grass,
Making monstrous mouths,
Braying like an ass
Twisting buttercups
In his orange hair,
Hopping like a kangaroo,
Growling like a bear.
Right up to tea-time
They frolic there.
“My legs are wingle,”
Says Ben to Claire.
poem by Robert Graves
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Degrees Don't Love You
Degrees don't love you so you never went to school!
But your mind writes like a Philosopher to teach many;
And the truth is, Degrees are obtained under a Faculty.
Degrees are obtained after the length of studies,
But without one's Philosophy there is no Faculty!
Because one has to create the ideas for others to follow;
And out of Philosophy came the branches of Faculties.
You don't need any Degree to identify yourself,
Because you have the ability of teaching others;
And Philosophy is always above Faculty! !
For, you are a Philosopher with the magic ink of your mind.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Descartes' Despair
How can we affirm our own existence?
Cogito ergo sum, Descartes said,
I think therefore I am.
But wait!
Who is doing the thinking?
The body?
Am I my body?
Well, Descartes explained, we are talking about
Two incompatible substances:
The unextended and indivisible mind
In contrast with the extended and divisible matter,
Res cogitans versus res extensa.
Yes, but am I my body?
How is the contact created
Between the mental
And the physical worlds?
Princess Elizabeth of the Palatinate asked.
Well, somewhere at the base of the brain,
In the pineal gland, replied the philosopher.
Oh, I have a problem with that,
The princess remarked.
For, if the brain exists in space,
How can the non-spatial mind dwell in it?
And Descartes threw up his hands
In despair.
poem by Paul Hartal
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A Bow To Simplicity
you go to church every morning
model catholic of this town
you listen to the sermon of the priest
you take the body of Christ
in your body
somehow these matters give you
comfort and so you have no time to
ask for more answers
because there are no questions asked
anyway
in any way, you dwell in the comfort zone of
religion
you are not a philosopher with all the wrinkles
on his forehead
you do not envy all these
search for wisdom
you do not need it anyway in your everyday
morning existence
about those joys you claim you have
the contentment of an achievement
no wars
no confusion even in small matters about
real happiness
in some ways you smile
and by all means we think that you are the child of God
smiling to everyone
sometimes i envy you
as i tremble over my thoughts
grinding every bean of coffee
in the machine of my mind
hot temperatures here
like hell
are questions part of hell?
doubts and regrets
they come together
trying to hit me with their fists
me, the philosopher
still unable to hold the beautiful arms of an
answer
i talk within and there are many selves talking
within
you pity me
for thinking too much
on such a simple existence
as breakfast and lunch and dinner
that you serve on my table
and for which
due to my self-inflicted fever
on a trembling mouth
i cannot eat
and then
i decided to keep silence in the middle of this
turbulence
i wash my face
comb my hair
and face you
saying the words that i do not mean
just to please you
like
i love you and then you smile
and you do not bother
what wisdom is
nothing bothers you
what more? what more is there?
you tell me
there is nothing more between the two of us
not even space
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ch 01 Manner Of Kings Story 07
A padshah was in the same boat with a Persian slave who had never
before been at sea and experienced the inconvenience of a vessel. He
began to cry and to tremble to such a degree that he could not be
pacified by kindness, so that at last the king became displeased as
the matter could not be remedied. In that boat there happened to be
a philosopher, who said: 'With thy permission I shall quiet him.'
The padshah replied: 'It will be a great favour.' The philosopher
ordered the slave to be thrown into the water so that he swallowed
some of it, whereon be was caught and pulled by his hair to the
boat, to the stern of which he clung with both his hands. Then he
sat down in a corner and became quiet. This appeared strange to the
king who knew not what wisdom there was in the proceeding and asked
for it. The philosopher replied: 'Before he had tasted the calamity of
being drowned, he knew not the safety of the boat; thus also a man
does not appreciate the value of immunity from a misfortune until it
has befallen him.'
O thou full man, barley-bread pleases thee not.
She is my sweetheart who appears ugly to thee.
To the huris of paradise purgatory seems hell.
Ask the denizens of hell. To them purgatory is paradise.
There is a difference between him whose friend is in his arms
And him whose eyes of expectation are upon the door.
0365 Poets and One World
The poet's world and the philosopher's
may seem to be in aim, and truth of act,
so different; the poet offers us
fine dreams of heart; philosophy, fine fact;
and yet, both spring from knowing nothing's known,
and wishing knowledge for its own true sake:
the poet seeks a truth in worlds his own;
philosophers seek paths which causes take;
yet both, in knowing their own ignorance,
are moved by wonder at the world they share -
the beauteous laws of this world's governance;
the universal heart and mind seen there:
poetic truth and love of wisdom spring
from wonder at the one in everything.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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To Friedrich Holderlin, poet
Here in this river valley below the Alps
which mimic high Olympus’ watching spirit,
everyone’s a silent poet of nature:
lakes; rivers; green fields; steeper goatfoot pastures;
forests; bare gaunt rocks and snow;
and the poetry of seasons of the year.
Once to see the seasons through, is to be
a little nearer God; to know
how gods measure out the earth.
Here inside the wooden room,
the measures, not so clear:
measured out by sterner, darker gods
whose seasons are not so predictable:
storms, tempests, thunder, flood
may last until we learn
lessons we do not yet understand.
Outside the window now
the last rays of evening sun catch
the metal spire of the nestling church;
its metal lightning conductor running
down its walls to that patch of earth
whose signs of scorching warn the devout soul..
Here inside the room, the poet too:
aspiring spire, lightning conductor;
rattling between heaven and earth,
torn by view of outside, inside..
Poets are only responsible to their words
when lining up their obstinacies
in the mind, on paper:
after that, must send them on their way:
the words mean more, or less, than the poets knew
while writing them; someone else may make
better use of them. This too,
the measure of the gods, of God.
*
Friedrich Holderlin, bi-polar poet-philosopher,1770-1843; correspondent of Goethe, inspirer of Rilke, subject of much discussion by philosopher Martin Heidegger.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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